first breath in a second life
by MessengerOfDreams
Summary: Life after Purin was plagued by silence. Life after Lucas was infested with noise. The two left behind cope with what's left to hear and speak again. Actual entrant to Smash King 24's Christmas Contest.
1. first breath

**A/N So I kind of had a crisis of faith in my writing. I learned that yeah I was really skirting the edge with my Diddy/Dixie Kong story, which I still plan on doing, and that it just barely fit the theme, so I wrote a new one. It was deeply flawed. So I wrote another new one. It was deeply flawed. So I wrote another new one. It was deeply flawed. I threw a couple of tantrums, launched shit at the wall, and actually started fixing this one up.**

**Thanks to both Tune and Pap for their help in getting me to get my shit together and fine tune this entry so it's actually presentable. I still plan on releasing the other two works down the road. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, regret nothing, and let them forget nothing.**

Life after Purin was plagued by silence.

I used to write songs I knew would sound lovely on her voice. We were united, king and queen of a small musical empire that might as well have been a fairy tale kingdom. When I lost her, the dream was shattered. Only fairy tales have happy endings.

Now I have nothing to write, because I know my words will never pass through her voice again. Like the house we once shared, I am also empty.

**~MoD~**

Every room I walk into is a wasteland. Even the most crowded room is empty.

The living room of my long lost father's old house is no exception. People are hard at work stringing up garlands, Christmas lights, and a copious amount of mistletoe that I avoid like landmines. They're all conversing about various holiday traditions I have long forgotten, with plans to make this season one to remember. No one notices me, because they have more important things to do.

I've heard when you're going through hell, you keep going, but even as I get to know these four strangers that I've let into my life, I still have no clue where I'm going. It seems like pouring all of their energy into Christmas and its empty tradition helps them focus their energy away from their grief. Zelda whistles a holiday tune as she strings up the mistletoe. Samus makes sure the lights she dragged out of the shed aren't burnt out. Gaiman dusts off the Christmas tree of any leftover dirt and foliage. I can barely contribute, only watch as they run around in this old house, trying to bring some color in my world.

Then there's you, floating through the room like you were never there.

You pass me for a brief moment. We don't talk, but you hand me a garland. The look on your face is guarded and blank. The silence of our interaction is stronger than the chat of the others I've long since muted. I look back at you as you leave. You don't give me the same courtesy. Without you, the room feels like the surface of the sun.

As short as I am, I barely can reach the ceiling even with a ladder. I still feel a dull ache in my leg, but thankfully it works, and I do my part. At times I am frustrated at how damaged one incident could leave my body, but I am still alive, whether or not I am better or worse for it. After I am done, I scan the room for you. You're gone; I expected no less, but I still have the nagging wish that someday, you'd stay and wait for me, or at least exchange a greeting.

Silence takes over my life again. I desperately yearn for some distracting background noise to assuage my nerves. In the depths of sound, I can hear the smallest, most humble jingling of a bell. I don't even bother to look around. I close my eyes, unsure of whether or not I preferred the silence. The silence brings nothing, but even the most innocuous noise can bring back everything.

**~MoD~**

_I look a fool; a small, sturdy man of forty-one dressed in combat boots, black winter garments, and a garish red Santa hat that Purin placed on top of my head. Every step I take is punctuated by a small, tinny bell, making me sound like a Salvation Army volunteer outside of a grocery store. I try not to visibly sulk, but I would much rather be inside enjoying the warm fire and having someone else sing the holiday music to me rather than singing it myself. _

_Purin giggles as she watches my dour walk. "Fe, fi, fo, fum," she teases with a giggle as my steps leave typhoons in the thin layer of snow along suburban streets. "Come on, you look like someone spilled your coffee."_

_I shrug. "Far from my intentions. I simply do not wish to expose helpless civilians to my voice."_

_She gestures dramatically to the group of carolers we trail by mere footsteps. "There's like five of us here," she points out. "I'm pretty sure your voice, as fine as it is, won't be too exposed."_

_"I should hope."_

_She frowns as my contempt. "Your voice is fine, lovey," she reassures me. _

"_Compared to you, I am a wounded frog."_

"_Most people are." She ends the debate by pulling my cap over my face like a child. "But this voice took ages to make the way it was. It's supposed to be good. I'd be scared if it wasn't."_

_I fix the cap, trying not to scowl as we approach the first house. I swallow, far from ready._

**~MoD~**

I have no Christmas cards to write except for the formalities. I'm too exhausted to think of something more poetic than incantations of "Happy Holidays, and may all of your aspirations of the season come to pass. -MK," because if it isn't going to happen for me, it may as well happen for someone else. I write one for Zelda, Gaiman, and Samus. Then, to each of the friends who have only communicated to the remnants of our pair through condolences and sentiments as empty as those on my cards.

After the cards are mostly through, I find that I have avoided writing one name on the final card. I write your name down, fill it with the same hollow season's greetings, and sign my initials. I look at it, knowing it says nothing when I need to say everything, so I set it aside. I don't trash it, because it is a small contingency plan, and I'm trying to regain the ability to prepare for anything.

I take out a piece of paper. I write your name. No dear, to, or regarding. Just "Rosalina."

I write nothing else. What else can I say to you?

I know nothing yet everything at once.

**~MoD~**

Samus finds it odd that I prefer we hunt on snow days, but she doesn't object. Weapons in hand, we quietly trudge through the snow. Samus wears no jacket, but refuses to take mine. As the snow hits my skin with a chilly, brisk kiss, I realize that maybe she has her reasons, but I feel terrible for letting her freeze. I put my coat back on. Like my own father, I let her make her own decisions, for better or worse.

For once, the silence is a gift, not a curse, because it is as nature intended, not as fate surrendered. Neither of us talk outside of necessity. Samus is so much like me, young enough to be my own daughter, but I try and hide how protective of her I am. Her vocalized disgust for people trying to shelter her outweighs my need to have someone to care for. Indeed, as I try and walk through the snow my limbs creak and pop like a broken machine, I feel like I need her support more than I could ever give her mine.

Our guns break the silence. We manage to catch a couple of ducks. Like my own father was, she is a clean hunter, no fuss or panache. She hits one, picks it up by its dead legs, and carries it like baggage. We begin to return to the cabin when I see you.

You're sitting on a log, modest white dress fitting your form, white hair speaking of the decades you have watched go by. You have pencils and paper in your lap, yet you do nothing, letting the snow and silence consume you. You enjoy the silence, I simply accept it. I notice when I pass you, you are smiling, a transcendent smile that speaks volumes. It fits our dynamic that has barely been explored. You are the light, I am darkness.

Samus taps me on the shoulder. She looks the slightest touch startled, potentially because we ran the risk of shooting you. I'm amazed that she remembered you were here, because it seems like I am the only one to notice you. When your eyes open, I pretend my gaze was never on you. I look away, but I feel your icy blue eyes rest on me, and that likely explains the chills. You slam your drawing book shut and turn away.

"Talk to her," she says, completely upfront as usual, shattering the silence for a moment.

I shake my head, and walk off. It takes a second for Samus' footsteps to follow me. Our feet leave natural signatures through the snow, and what once upon a time connected me to the Earth now makes me feel like I've left it a long time ago.

**~MoD~**

_The first house is over, and I barely get away with mumbling a few lines of _Joy to the World_. It's a little easier now that I understand the anonymity I can obtain. Of course, Purin is next to me, high off of the adrenaline singing grants her, arm around my waist. Snow gathers around us on the sidewalks, and every new step takes an extra modicum of effort. _

"_One house down, forty-something to go," she plans, the Dr. Frankenstein to my Igor madly surveying the kingdom of suburban houses she will lure to their knees with her voice. "Glad to see you've yet to explode."_

"_Give me time," I reply with a smirk._

_She simply pulls my hat down over my eyes once more. The jingle bell is sharp in my ear. _

_I fix it once more. "You are quite the child when you wish to be."_

_I realize my words too late, and as could be expected it always brings her just the slightest touch down to Earth. _

"_I apologize."_

"_Don't," she says, hand to my face, her voice dark. "We've been over the apologizing thing. Don't apologize for things you can't control."_

_I almost spit out another one by mistake, but I bite my tongue. _

_Still, she maintains remnants of a smile. "Well, if you can't join them, beat them," she cracks, converting our struggles into a joke that can be brushed off. "Maybe kids on Christmas morning is exactly what we need to be."_

"_If we're out here long enough, we certainly will be."_

_She kisses the side of my head briskly, sharp enough that I almost don't feel it until my cheeks have warmed my face._

**~MoD~**

I attend the next meeting where the others plan the holiday party. I still have nothing to contribute, but neither do you.

As Zelda absently fixes the tree as she has to near obsessive levels, Gaiman talks about the meal, moving as smoothly as his eighty years would allow him to, slowly passing out samples of the duck, cracking "I'm gonna make this duck taste so good Christ will invite himself to his own damn birthday."

The others compliment him. I notice that Samus is fixing the lone string of garland I assisted with, and I wonder if I am becoming the true ghost, my presence known everywhere but my impact negligible.

You do not eat your miniscule slice. As the others drift into more active discussion that I do not feel involves me, I watch you slip it under your chair, looking on the others like a mother hen watching her flock dutifully. Your hair is disheveled and not as thick as it was when I entered, part of it draped lazily over one eye. Your skin clings to your bones for dear life. I wonder if you have eaten at all since you've arrived here. You are quietly evaporating.

When I sense you begin to turn, I look away. I pretend to be invested in the conversation of others. I suppose people find peace in the idea that they have something to care for again. It's as simple as being distracted. We have lost so much that we are willing to throw themselves into the smallest things and give them so much more meaning.

Right now, I can feel the chill of your eye on my body, and it feels like the merciless toll of a thousand winter nights.

I feel your presence as it leaves the room, plate in hand, knowing no one will notice except for me; also knowing that like you, I have bound myself to a meaningless code of silence. Suddenly, I myself feel the loss of appetite.

**~MoD~**

To hear people process their grief is a funny thing. I'm told it helps, but it feels like I am in a museum watching performance art of others imitating humans.

Today Samus is talking.

"I thought about it," she says all too quickly, "and I'm not re-enlisting."

No one speaks. The floor is hers.

She says the military is just not for her, and it's brought a lot of death. Her words are casual, like it means nothing, like recovering from another dead friend is just the most mundane thing she'll do all day. Like all it takes is a cold shower for you to reach a conclusion and start over.

I am happy for her, so I applaud, happy to know that she is safer. I look to you to see your reaction with more trust than you know. You don't notice me, but you have tears in your eyes, and shake your head. Your drawing book is in your hand, and absently you write with unrefined strokes, jotting down letters I cannot decipher. I don't know what I'm missing, so I look at Samus again. She's accepting a hug from Zelda, insisting this is no big deal while Zelda chipperly preaches about how much progress Samus has made. Yet, now that you seem so aghast about it, I notice the exhaustion in Samus' eyes, and how much effort it takes for every movement.

Suddenly, her lithe recovery seems more like the acceptance of an inevitability. I try and pretend I have never known that feeling.

Everyone else speaks. Zelda says today is the first day since Link's death that she has opened the journal he wrote during his travels abroad. You continue to log your own journal entries. Gaiman says that he has been comforted by having us as a motley crew of a family and wishes to finally accept the contact of his family that he's avoided since his wife of six decades passed on. As I muse about how seventeen years felt like an eternity now dwarfed by sixty-two, you take note of his own guilt for losing touch with his family.

After that, it's just me and you.

I say nothing, out of excuses, still as stubborn as I've always been. You close your notebook and leave, your footsteps so soft that they nearly cease to exist. No one reacts, everyone seems to understand, but I see Zelda's eyes follow your trail with muted disappointment that she shakes off the moment I look at her. I wonder if she has the same sentiments towards me; if she thinks I've gathered everyone here to watch their suffering and give nothing in return.

I, too, decide to leave. I don't grab my jacket, and I don't panic, but the house suffocates me. I have built my own prison, and the snow melts into my skin, it melts my shackles. It's the closest I get to feeling alive again.

**~MoD~**

"_See? It's fun!"_

_I shrug, because I am too proud a man to admit it. Our second house has passed us, and I admit that I enjoyed seeing the family react to our ambush of Christmas cheer. The children wave at us and react in joy, happy to be awake at a novel time despite the anxiety of awaiting fictional gift-givers. I see in their eyes the way I imagine our kids would have enjoyed her voice. _

_She leans against me as we walk at a leisurely pace. The snow hits us. Instinctively, I guard my hat, and she giggles knowingly. _

"_No, I'll leave it be. It's already starting to snow."_

"_Had I known that, I'd have taken it off."_

_I slip out of my jacket. Even if for a minute, I want the snow to touch my skin. It's a reminder of childhood, of time spent in a log cabin helping my father chop up wood, hunt for game, and build snowmen when the work was done. A straightforward life created a straightforward person, but I indulge in the snow because it is one of the few things that connects me to past, present, and though I knew not now, the future. _

"_You're a dork."_

_I respond by pulling her hat over her eyes, like the child I once was._

**~MoD~**

I suppose our paths were always to cross. From the moment others stepped into this empty house that was the meager inheritance from my father, I knew that they were the conductors, and I was only the foundation, quite like my marriage. I let the others try and fill my void as I fail to fill in theirs, letting them solve their grief without my help. I wonder if they only notice I'm here when they sleep in their beds, tucked snugly away in our own corner of the Oregon coast; a quiet, mysterious man keeping watch over them but never offering anything more than stability.

I suppose two shadows blend into one.

"Hello."

As you stand before me in the living room beside the Christmas tree, I play back all of the silence that we've contributed before your simple greeting. You caught my attention because at times I did not know you were here. When I did, I realized what an anomaly you are. You look ageless, indomitable, a spiritual figure in the midst of mere humans. You dress only in thick robes, like royalty, the colors pale blue like the sky, smooth even to the mind's touch. You never speak, you are as much of a ghost as Purin, yet right now, you hold my hand, and you are real.

We look at each other. You are much taller than I, the broken half of a severed couple of admittedly short people. I know not why you hold my hand, or why I move forward again and place mine on your hip in such a way that I'd fall otherwise. This is not according to plan. This does not feel like accurate action. But you accept it with a smile, enveloping me in an embrace.

For once, I feel comfortable again. Safe. At once a child and an equal. We stand alone, ghosts in an empty room with no lights. This is our shelter.

You lean down to face me. You let me kiss you, and as you return it, the walls come crashing down.

A shallow chase to fill a high gone longer than it feels like I had it ends with two of us careening off the side of a cliff. I feel a sting of betrayal, to myself and to those gone. I feel desperate, like I am shamelessly chasing after something worth meaning despite it being meaningless.

I break apart. I can't bear to look at you. I do not feel your chills on my spine, but I am so cold. Your presence feels uneasy, as though I punched you instead of kissed you, like I used you without a care for who you truly were.

You walk away, and for once I hear your footsteps clack against the ground. My eyes follow you, and you don't look back, nearly sprinting out. I haven't the shame to follow you, and I collapse on the couch nearby, trying to process my own actions.

The silence is devastating.

**~MoD~**

At times I try and write out what I feel that I cannot say to the others.

Silence follows me to the written word, where I have lost my ability to write when Purin's voice could no longer make my words worth something.

I still try and remember her. I am thankful I never saw her destroyed the way I nearly was, because I can still imagine her in her aged beauty. Nearly forty years old, a mere four years younger than I, her skin showing wear and tear, faded lavender hair, wide blue eyes that contained an ocean I could drown myself in and die content. It was not perfect, but it was real. It was more than I could ever have asked for.

I still fall asleep to her voice, my mind listening to the lullabies she could only sing to me.

I have nothing to say. I only have visions, feelings, sensations I wish I still had. That is why I cannot communicate. Words cannot describe the nothingness I feel. Only silence can.

I tried after your kiss to write again, to see if that feeling could give to my memory the sensation of touch I'd long lost. I can still see her, exactly as I always imagine her. Pure, perfect, the support throughout my life that never wavered, even as she changed my heart from a hollow stone to a blooming rose, until life clipped the head off and left me only with thorns.

Now it's been so long that I can no longer imagine Purin's kiss. I have traded one small part of her away in an attempt to get it back. You feel nothing like her. She was short, and everything about her had strength, volume, power. When I held onto you, it was a miracle that my hands did not disappear to the other side.

Yet, you are the only sensation that remains.

Is this what goodbye feels like?

**~MoD~**

"_I think we've nearly run out of carols," Purin muses with frustration. "So much for trying a new song with every door."_

"_Do they have any suggestions?" I ask._

_She throws her hands up in the air. "Take a guess, what do you think?" she asks. "Nope, 'Purin's got everything planned, we may as well follow along and have a gay old time'."_

_I feel like I've done the same, but the last thing I need to do is compound her stress, as unnecessarily overblown as it may be. _

"_Perhaps I can think something up," I offer. _

"_You would be a god among men if you could help me out."_

_Quietly, I think. I do not have a cellphone on me with any more capabilities than the purpose phones were built for, so I must rely on human memory. Past Christmases, the lingering memories of the holidays of old. The snow hits my bare arm again, as I've yet to put my jacket back on. It transports me back to the simplicity of my childhood. Music is universal. It lasts through every time, place, and reality. I remember the one record my father owned and played during the winters. I'd forgotten it as it nearly became background noise, but it sounds like the lyrics of life as I think about it._

"_Do you know any Elvis Presley songs?"_

_She gets her phone out and furiously starts to search up his library. "You're really setting the bar high, ain't ya?" she snarks._

"_I think you can manage."_

_She stops, and I kiss her without reservations. She returns it, blushing like I had as she releases me and looks for lyrics. I feel oddly accomplished._

**~MoD~**

Presents slowly begin to pile up underneath the tree. Zelda asks me point blank if there's anything I'd like. I shrug, admitting that I haven't given it thought. She tries not to show disappointment that I am again at a distance, not involved in the pageantry of the season. She fails; I know this because I have mastered a poker face that has kept the others at as much of a distance as I want.

I tell her not to worry about me. I don't tell her I'm doing more than enough of worrying about myself for her not to occupy herself with me. Her eyes shoot completely open, and words far less rehearsed and measured than her usual contributions launch from her like a cannon.

"You should let us worry about you," she retorts. "It's what you brought us here for."

I don't respond, hoping that ends things. She sighs and says she'll find something for me anyways, whether I want it or not. I admire her tenacity, hidden within a porcelain shell that is stronger than it seems.

I notice you are by the tree, running your hands along the spines. The texture is rough, yet its authenticity is comforting. I open my mouth to speak to you, but your gaze nearly turns me to stone. You have put a wall between us so thick even Zelda notices, looking alarmed. I don't look away, even though I feel like I've been shot. Why is that? I was the one to fire the first round.

As you let it go and walk away, I smell the forest on your aura, and it tempts me. I try and deny it, but I cannot. It's enough to get me to follow you, to see if I can say anything that can make you more than a regret. More than a demon that will forever plague my past in spiteful silence, like the pain in my leg that still resurfaces ever since it failed to stop the car in time.

I find you walking into the snow. You hear my desperate footsteps just behind you and swivel around. You gather your strength and guard the open path into the forest like a loyal sentient, preventing me from stepping into your world. We are a cold war, frozen in time, and neither of us move. Time stops, and every wasted second tears me apart molecule by molecule.

Nothing is said, nothing is done. You breathe out, nearly deflating, and you walk away. I realize I have left myself incapable of fixing things, and that I will go nowhere if this is what I do.

**~MoD~**

I continue to go through the motions. I go into Newport alone, looking for gifts. This isn't like the city I used to live in, but the Coast Town is more than enough for any tourist wanting cheap gifts. Just alongside the water are tons of little shops, cars parked on the sidelines of each of them, making this town of ten-thousand feel like Times Square. The snow is paved, the streets covered in people singing Christmas songs, or walking too closely for strangers, giving and receiving warmth worth more than any gift.

I often see families together, and I try not to hate them, but envy consumes me. I feel so greedy, my life going from desiring a family of four, to being content if only we could settle for three, and now simply wanting the pair that defined the greater part of my life.

I wander into various stores, tuning out the chatter. I don't have any music. It's too jarring of a shift to run through my body. There's too much of the emotion of others that I don't dare to match. I find a pair of earrings for Zelda, I find a cookbook that Gaiman didn't have on his shelves, and I find Samus a jacket, because I can no longer help the fact that I just wish she'd care about herself more than she did.

In the store is a newspaper. It speaks of a distant space center I haven't given much mind to because it just exists, saying that there will be a new wing of the center named after a fallen astronaut and fellow Oregonian named Lucas Stellan. His picture is on the front page; a barely grown young man of high intelligence looking world-weary already, with messy blond hair and freckles dominated by a closed-off expression that made me wonder if he chose his line of work to get away from this planet.

I grab and pay for it, reminding myself that the world is full of tragedy. I can't tell if it's schadenfreude or the desperation to have someone to relate to that possesses me to read the news. News is nothing but tragedy reported to all, because it seems drastic change rarely happens from positive events.

The cashier places the newspaper in a plastic bag, Lucas looking through it into the world he had long since left. I leave the final store and I see you on the outside. There is not a bag in your hand, and there are two in mine. We stop, looking at each other, stopped in our tracks as the city moves around us like planets in orbit. We can't stop, we can't let go, but we can't move. We can't leave, we can't stay, we just are. We are ever the same, incapable of progress.

You see the newspaper in my bag, and something inside you seems to snap. Your eyes widen, you step back, and you look at me like I am the one who broke you in ways I cannot even begin to understand. I drop the bag, and Lucas' face disappears into the sidewalk. You jolt, as though my mistakes have stabbed you. You try and catch yourself, wiping your brow and folding your hands together, but you breathe like you're racing for every last one.

I blurt an apology. No formality. None of a writer's finely tuned language. Just a desperate need to throw an idea forward like a venomous spider trying to damage my inner being.

You walk towards me. I turn to stone as you approach me. You take my hand again to see if I react. Unlike your eyes, your body projects enough warmth to make Newport summertime again. I don't move. I don't want to make the same mistake I did last time. I don't want to break you any further.

"Do something."

You are unsatisfied. You try and squeeze my hand to get some life out of me, but you have exposed that I have not the boldness to contribute anything. Neither of us have anything to say. We are both stuck in neutral.

You close your eyes in defeat and leave, accepting that I might leave your life as abruptly as I barged into it.

All I do is walk on the boardwalk next to a river just borne of the Pacific Ocean. I look into the water and into the distance beneath the Yaquina Bay Bridge, endless nothingness ahead of me. It's beautiful out, yet it still doesn't matter to me, because I don't know what to do with it.

**~MoD~**

"_Isn't it beautiful out?"_

_I look at the side of her face as we walk together, and I agree. Even now, I wish I could remember exactly as she looked that night. Her hair was graying to spite the pink hair dye, but the graceful lavender was a beautiful compromise. Her eyes never tired, always full of coursing energy. Her footfalls were sharp, powerful, happy to be stepping on the Earth. When she spoke, invisible color filled the sky, dissolving into my skin and making my heart race._

**~MoD~**

She was so alive.

Now that she's gone, I fight to remember a time before loss, and I am losing.

"Purin" is still all that remains on the blank page to no one.

Purin's memory fades away from the forefront to the endless vault of memories that only I will ever know the key to. These are memories I cannot lose, but cannot burn. Some days I could burn the entire vault- joy, misery, peace, turmoil, anger, love, every last memory- just to get rid of the pain. She's slowly leaving for good, her ghost kissing me farewell and drifting away, and I am too paralyzed in fear to chase her.

Even I cannot stop death.

My pen cannot even form a new word. I used to be so good at this. I wrote the lullabies she sang. I wrote the stories she read. I laid the groundwork and she brought life to our plans. Now I am nothing but an empty notebook of untold stories.

As I prepare to sleep, her voice is distant. Your hand in mine is the last thing I feel. My dream is an endless amount of time of you leading me through a maze of vague nothingness, which I never find my way out of before I wake. My dreams never satisfy me; I am used to always awakening from them before I get what I want. This is different. Despite being a caricature of my current life, this dream was all too real, and I realize that you dragged me through nothingness because I knew no way out for either of us.

**~MoD~**

It's the eve before Christmas. I wish I was good company that day, but the same as ever, I am quiet and subservient. When people make conversation with me, I return it with stock responses. When people ask something of me, I give it. Yet when people sing Christmas songs, the same small set that are on every blasted year, I still cannot bring myself to sing because I don't have a beautiful voice like hers.

"Does anyone know _Blue Christmas?" _Samus asks, smirking knowingly. Zelda slaps her forehead, and Gaiman gives her a playful shove with enough force that he nearly falls over. I should be amused, but every Christmas song sung puts me back into a haze. There's not one I can cease to hear in her voice. She went through them all and then some, and ever since then all the holidays have produced are words without meaning.

I let them sing, recognizing the voices. Samus and Zelda's voices dance like the prince and the belle of the ball, Samus the foundation and Zelda the spark. I hear Gaiman's voice, scratchy yet still jubilant, playfully contributing the traditionally female backing chorus. Eventually all the voices fade out, and I remember hers.

**~MoD~**

"_I'll have a blue Christmas without you."_

_Our final song was not without a twinge of sadness, and even I admitted that I was sad to see the night go. What was once a reluctant experience is one I wish I never had to say goodbye to, even though it was nearing midnight._

_I offer my amateur baritone, because anything that gives my dear Purin the floor to sing, I will do. Goofy hat, mediocre singing abilities, a shoulder to lean on, a lifelong companion, the words that she inspires me to write to cope with the power of our love, I would do for her to sing._

_She doesn't have the polished, dramatic charm of Elvis Presley, but she sings as clear and as colorfully as the bells on our hats. The others split apart, letting the angel take the floor, while I mumbled my part, barely knowing the lyrics but the melody filling me with every moment of life. _

_We stop, and I notice the Star of David hanging on a hook outside their door. Feeling even more foolish, I laugh, pulling my hat over my eyes. _

_Regardless, the matron of the house applauds, and her companion says, "that was lovely!"_

_I know. Her voice could part the seas, bring manna from heavens, and bring the dead back to life. That's why even as everything else fades from her memory, her voice remains._

**~MoD~**

I close my eyes, letting Purin's voice drown out theirs.

"_And when those bluuuuue snowflakes start falling"_

Snowflakes. The feeling of snow on my skin. Something new with every time I left the room. Something growing. Something changing. I can feel it even now.

"_That's when the bluuuuuue memories start calling."_

Her voice brings it all back, her closing song. It's a flash, I remember everything about her. I remember her standing next to me as we walked through the city, two lonely souls finding light together. I remember the feeling of her body in my embrace, the way she said my name when my lips were on the side of her face. A playful tease, but appreciating my adoration. I remember every situation that mattered, every aspect of our life that hurt and every aspect that healed. Our wedding, the day we found out she was barren, constructing our first album and raising a music career when we could not raise a family. I remember the car ride where we took life as being ever the same before one sudden miscalculation changed everything. I remember the last few moments of our life before the harrowing first few of mine.

I don't cry, but I leave.

"_You'll be doing alright with your Christmas of white, but I'll have a blue, blue, blue Christmas."_

**~MoD~**

_Purin._

_The snow on my skin,_

_the laughter of a child,_

_even if not ours, lingers in my mind._

_Without you, my sentences have no rhythm,_

_my verses no rhyme_

_but even now I can find their meaning._

_I have no one to sing,_

_you no longer have an audience,_

_but my words and your voice will never leave the Earth._

_Music is timeless,_

_love is timeless,_

_and through them you are immortal._

**~MoD~**

Rosalina.

Your unfamiliar name is less intimidating now.

I take the letter with your name on it. I realize I can't finish it because I cannot pre-package any sentiments I have. I cannot express them through words. Yet, you aren't worth simply a card full of recycled sentiments.

Without a fuss, I put the paper in the garbage. It's irrelevant.

I have since gotten you a gift. I take it, and I take a plate. I cover Gaiman's food in tinfoil, and place it in the bag with your gift, as I leave the house. The lights are dim, and as I leave they're still singing. I know you're not here; even as silent and distant as you are, all the Christmas lights in the world couldn't replace the light of your star.

I walk into the snow, measuring every footstep, feeling each one fall like a rock, leaving craters in the snow that's nearly up to my knees. I know you have to be here. I can feel your light from here. I don't rush, because I want to take my time. I don't want to rush. I don't want to throw all my cards on the table, but I can no longer play with the hand I'm dealt. I need a new draw.

I want to write a new song. I just hope you're still around to sing. I finally have the courage to welcome a new voice, even if it will never sound the same.

I eventually find you, sitting on a downed log that I believe you were on last time. It's been enough time for your jacket to have a fresh layer of snow, and for the paper you draw onto to hold a thin layer of water damage. You don't look up at me, but the tears in your eyes tell me that it's not simply snow that has affected the drawing you've only recently finished.

I nod slowly, accepting that I will now be throwing myself into the lion's den of grief. I will now listen, and I know I will have to talk in return.

I take a seat next to you. You give me that look that sends shivers through my veins that run blood into the heart I'm desperately trying to repair.

"Is this your attempt to finally do something?"

I sigh, knowing that I've started us off on a false note, and that cannot change. Still, I take a deep breath, and I say, "Yes."

There's a small smile on your face, but your eyes are still glaciers melted as you look at me. You know I'm here, I know you're here, and I know this is no experiment, no accident of fate.

On your sketch pad, a picture of Lucas Stellan looks up at me. This time, he's smiling, at peace.

I take her hand. You let me. We don't kiss. We still don't speak. We're not there yet. We sit there, not interacting until the snow leaves the paper stained enough to manipulate the ink into a mess, and until Purin has finished her closing song in my mind's ear.

You look me in the eye.

"Your eyes are like fire."

Your voice is smooth like silk, as comfortable as the feeling of snow is on my arm.

You turn the page, and I see myself in an older drawing. I look like the grim reaper, but the drawing is flattering and quite well done. It is like gazing into a mirror, my eyes of brown burning with life. My skin is ragged, my face expressionless, and I stand like the soldier of my own war, but I stand regardless.

I reach into the bag, and pull out the plate. I say, "You should eat."

"I know, I must look like death," you admit. "I apologize if you worried about me."

I shake my head, handing you the plate. "After everything… I have done nothing but worry. I only wish I had found my way to you sooner."

You pick bits and pieces of the food, but you have little appetite, and I know it. I know it's not an easy fix, so I let it go.

"I do not know your journey," you say, "but I know if you continue to take it alone, you will never make it. Take me with you, and perhaps we will both find our way out."

You are another poet, it seems, because your words speak directly to my DNA.

I reach into the bag and pull out your gift. You smile at me, taking the finished sketch pad, shutting it, and placing it in my bag. You take the new one and open it. It's blank save for a few charcoal pencils, ready for new experiences to draw.

"Thank you," you say. "I didn't expect this."

I shake my head, much like you did when Samus tried to pass off her grief as nonexistent. I know that I expected something between us, something to tear down the walls. I may as well throw the first stone, even though I am not without sin. We are two imperfect entities trying not to break next to each other, but somehow are stronger for it.

You reach into your coat pocket, pulling out your own gift- unwrapped, like mine. I don't quite recognize it because I am not an expert in electronics, but I'm already intrigued.

"Not sure what to do with this," I admit. You laugh, a subtle, tired laugh, and you turn it on. I notice it came with earbuds, and I put one in. You take the other, and plug the headphones in. You pick an album, and immediately whatever remaining security I had around me falls.

I am free. I am not fixed, I am not well, I am not perfect, but I am free.

It is a song I've never heard, and a song with no voice. The performers are as quiet as we, but speak volumes through string, drums, and melodies united and swimming between each other like Zelda and Samus when they sing and dance. It's an entirely new song, and I love it.

We sit together, arm in arm, the past treasured but the final words written and published. Enjoying a wordless Christmas eve, we open ourselves up to a new song.

The name of the album is _Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. _

That we shall.

**~MoD~**

_I drive us home at 12:30am, Christmas day. We leave the suburbs of Beaverton. Your voice is exhausted, because you give your all every time you sing, and just over fifty songs have left you breathless. You're asleep, and I'm driving down Canyon Road towards the city center, back home. All that I know are winding roads through the forest, shadows and streetlights, and silence. It's the last time such silence is peaceful. _

_I am too tired to drive, but I manage, and we survive this round. It's luck that I took for granted until I ran out of it. _

_I glance over at you. You sleep like a child. You're still smiling._

**~MoD~**

It's Christmas morning. When I wake for it, I feel like I actually have woken up.

I hand out gifts I failed to wrap, as I've still yet to reclaim any panache I once had. Zelda accepts the earrings with grace, Gaiman claps my shoulder, impressed I found one of the five cookbooks on Earth that he didn't own at one point or another. I hand Samus the jacket uneasily. She looks at me, puts it on, and smiles without a word. I notice as I walk away she zips it up and wears it even as she sits down.

We cross paths under the mistletoe. No slaves to routine, we don't kiss, but you wish me a good morning. I nod and return it.

I put my headphones on, and turn on the album _The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place. _Like the last album, it's nothing but wordless music that says everything I could never have the skill to write down. I pour myself a cup of coffee and return to the room, watching as you interact with the others. You give Samus a photo album, Zelda a journal, and Gaiman a prepaid phone. I take a headphone out and hear you tell him how easy it will be to contact his family now. For the first time since he's been here, he's crying, and embraces you. As the music plays through my other ear, I realize you've given us all a fresh start. You've given me new songs to play, you've given Samus new memories to make, you've given Gaiman new ways to connect with old family, and you've given Zelda new ways to record what I'm sure will be a successful life.

I hope I can give you new things to draw.

Hopefully as time goes by I can help put their devices to good use.

I remove my headphones, watching the gift-giving and the conversing. You sit next to me, drinking a cup of eggnog. We watch, the knowing ghosts who knew as much as we could simply because we only knew how to observe.

You place your hand on my free hand, and take my other earbud. You compliment me on my choice, and we let the first song play out. _First Breath After Coma. _

I feel like I've awoken from a long one.

"So." I still have not regained the eloquence I once had naturally, but the very sound of my voice unprovoked by the others turns all three heads at once. You turn the music player off.

"I want to thank you," I say. "In the seventeen years that I had been married, my wife always had a desire to stand up for others, to welcome them into our world and care for them. She'd said that she would only feel fulfilled if her life actually meant something to others. We were unable to have children, so this desire was often just a dream. I believe after she passed a distant part of me wanted to carry on that legacy, but the last few months have been so…" My voice cracks, because it was never a voice used to singing, "...challenging, in that I felt nothing at all. I had hoped that inviting your company in, complete strangers I could only hope identified with what I myself could not understand. I have been silent for so long, and I hope you bear with me as I learn to speak, because I finally have been able to acknowledge the benefit your presence has had on me."

The others applaud me. You hold my hand even tighter. I appreciate it.

I know outside, the trees are dead, their leaves buried under layers of snow that will melt. Death has become as familiar to be as my own skin and bones, but just as Spring brings the renewal of all that was lost, this Christmas has done to my life.

I'm glad you were here to wake me up.


	2. second life

**A/N I couldn't leave this story be without busting out the other half of the story. You know, go big or go home. I just felt like MK getting the narration only told so much. Don't expect the others to get their own chapters cause I spent a day typing this up on my iPod and not doing productive shit. This, and replaying Need For Speed Most Wanted. You might see another one of those stories coming out depending on my mood.  
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**Thanks to Tune for uploading this on my account. You're a goddess and I would be a writer dead on my feet without you. But you knew that. **

**Disclaimer and all, not much to say. I'm hoping this works.**

Life after Lucas was infested by noise.

I had raised to the best and worst of my abilities a young astronaut, and when the galaxies we would gaze at in awe claimed his body as well as his heart, all people would talk about is what they lost. He was talented, he was intelligent, he was dedicated, and he died a hero.

I can never see a funeral in such black and white terms. Fifty-three years of losing more people than I kept had painted a youth's rose tinted glasses to red as crimson as blood, as anger, as war. A mother should never be able to see her child as a flawless angel. We only had each other; divorces, fights, betrayal, and accursed loss would be sure of it. I saw him as his best, at his worst, at every peak and in every trip to the depths of hell. I raised a brilliant young man whose conquering of his own faults made him beyond angelic to me. There is something more miraculous about a good man than there is about a million angels. Angels are born with their wings. He worked for them.

The second he finally got to fly, his wings were clipped.

Now all I feel is a consistent sense of falling. Falling through the empty condolences of others, falling through grief, anger, regret, denial. Falling through every morning I wake up knowing he's gone, or worse, every morning I forget. I am falling, falling, falling, and I've left no one to catch me.

**-MoD-**

The decision to take the invitation of one man who could only send out online requests to unite us together was one I dared not think through. I was left in the house I raised my son in, and every inch of it was a trap that triggered a thousand memories it burned me to think of again. I had to leave, I had to break free, and I couldn't let fear stop me.

I recognized the faces immediately. I recognize the blonde, one who didn't mince words and was as fit as her youth allowed her, from a story about prisoners of war, of which she was the one survivor. The woman I would learn was the wife of a famous television survival expert personality, who played with fire one too many times. The eldest of them all, a tall eighty-year old black man who still had a spring in his step, was a fantastic chef who kick started the culinary scene in his hometown, and would be the first to tell his stories. I don't recognize the host.

Me, I just fell into line. I didn't want to speak, I was tired of being asked questions about my grief for people who didn't care. I simply observed, and observed well. I could understand Samus and realized her honesty to all except herself. I respected Zelda for being open with her emotions and doing her damnedest to provoke the same from us. Gaiman's spirit was enough to light the room more than any Christmas lights ever could.

When they started work in stringing up the Christmas lights and decorations, I seamlessly fell into line. I took directions with a small smile, listening to Zelda's leadership and watching her masterpiece of planning bring Christmas to this old home.

I held a garland in my hand when I saw the host, a man I knew nothing about but had already lost so much of myself to. I don't talk to him, simply giving him the garland. I don't want to talk to him today, even moreso than I don't talk to others. With them, my silence is a safe haven. With him, it is an escape.

He has already made me a fool.

I feel his eyes on my neck, and they burn holes right through me. I pull my robe up until I feel them no more. Even then, after he's gone to work, I still can't get the feeling of his presence off of me.

**-MoD-**

I remember in sporadic moments. I do my best to fight off the grief. I try and focus on the others and invest in their stories so I can forget my own. But even the best defenses cannot stand forever.

Sometimes I remember. I remember indirectly, when the feeling of loneliness overtakes me. It starts with the people I lost before Lucas. I remember with David, the only man I allowed myself to fall for, a damaged soldier who could only buy into stability and sanity for so long until he threw our world out of balance.

I remember the day I told him to stay away from me. Lucas was crying in his room, falling apart at last, his birthday ruined by his drunk father who spilled forth meaningless rage towards everything, expunging his self loathing onto the things that matter most, to the point where my demand, said in the lowest, most hateful guttural growl I will ever manage, did nothing but convince him to walk out quietly, never to return.

I collapsed on the couch, hating the fact that my relationships had just been broken beyond repair and my son was the one to face the consequences. I listened to his sobs, filled with pain, anger, and confusion, and I bit my lip to keep from crying as well. The taste of my own blood made me stronger as my teeth punctured my skin, forcing myself to stay upright.

When he settled, I knew I had to tell him.

I walked into his room, seeing him sitting at his desk. An endless map of the stars was on his ceiling, and his room was decked in space memorabilia. He sat on his desk, arms folded between books and journals, a sketch pad with a half-finished drawing of a ship open. He tried to work on it, but by the way he was shaking I knew he was failing.

"Lucas," I whispered. "He's gone."

He looked up, but didn't face me. He didn't believe me.

"He's gone," I explained, "for good."

Lucas closed his eyes, shut his notepad, and said the worst thing he could have, the one word that could have broken my heart.

"Good."

He left his chair and abandoned me in his room, where I found myself faced with the aftermath of thirteen years where I was too weak to face a father whose son hated him. In one word I could hear every ounce of exhaustion, every iota of hatred, every molecule of suffering he faced in the stormy seas of this broken family. I had spent so long convincing myself David wasn't unsalvagable, so wrapped up in saving the three of us that all I accomplished was lying to one of us. Now my lies to myself burned in my mind, and I hated myself for spending so long telling myself it could be worse that I never realized it never got better.

I only hoped I could save what I had left.

**-MoD-**

Sometimes I can take it no more. I dare not show my tears to anyone else in the house. I do not want the questions, the curiosity, the need to upstage your own mourning process. I did not want to hear others talk. I wanted silence.

At times I would leave the home and find my way into the forest. The host's cabin was in the edge of forests on the edge of the Oregon Coast, just before the trees began to disappear into nothingness. Snow covered the ground everywhere, claiming the woods on behalf of Winter. It was cold, it was fresh, it was real. It was everything yet nothing at all. Most of all, it was quiet.

I never set out on my schedule dates to cry, because I convinced myself into believing that to be weak. I told myself that I was simply leaving to draw in the forest, like normal people clearly did often. Like he did.

Of course, memory only gets you so far when you want to recreate them.

I will always remember Lucas, that's a given, but I find myself paralyzed in fear as I realize that his physical form had begun to escape my mind's eye. The pages were always empty, my attempts worthless, my pride shattered.

Feeling so useless, could you help but cry?

My tears were interrupted by gunshots. One, then two. I used to jump at the sound of them, ready to hide under the log I sat on, fearing for my life. Now as I hear the host and Samus hunt, I sit placidly, my tears drying up, too tired to fear for my own safety.

It's not until I hear footsteps that I become anxious. As they get louder I pretend I don't notice, peering into my notebook, holding a pencil in a horrible attempt to feign drawing prowess. I notice them, but I don't see them, just feeling the burn of his eyes on mine.

"Talk to her," I hear Samus command. I hope she isn't successful, but I also know commitment isn't in the host's best ability. Nothing happens for a few moments except my heart hammering out of my chest. Predictably, the footsteps fade away, and I become cold once more.

Still, I burn inside. The host angers me just to think about. Sometimes I swear I hate him for leaving me high and dry, but I feel like I hate him for doing what I do to others, which makes me feel kindred to him, a mirror darkly of his own fears of opening up. I just wish he'd never held out his hand once just to take it away once more.

People have already shattered my faith so many times, and it is so hard to rebuild it when I let someone else break it for nothing.

**-MoD-**

Despite the decorations being up, Zelda insists on all of us meeting together to plan for the holidays, though I could expect nothing more of the woman who still was fixing every ornament of the tree even as she spoke. Today, Gaiman took some of the duck Samus hunted and fixed it up, cracking wise about inviting Christ to his own birthday to taste his food. Gaiman is confident, but not arrogant, taking his flaws and using his skill to overcome them. As the others dig into the duck, I see them approve, and I know Gaiman's confidence is not wasted.

I face it, and will myself to eat it, but I am not hungry. I barely eat anymore, in fact I feel like I only exist via pure technicality. I must look like a corpse that failed to die. When I feel the slow burn on my skin, I can only imagine what the host is thinking. I don't look up, but I can just imagine his judgment, his striking eyes of near orange condemning me as hopeless, as I have been condemned and condemned myself to more often than not.

The thought angers me, even if I have no proof. How dare he judge me for being broken when he hardly helps to fix me. He could have, he nearly did, but he would not.

I turn to look at him. He sharply turns away, caught in the act. Predictable.

I get up and leave the room as nonchalantly as I can, despite his eyes lighting me on fire that could burn down the forests.

I retire to my room to sleep, and it's amazing that for a short time I was ever awake.

**-MoD-**

Samus once cracked that a mother of a teenage son deserved a medal of honor. Coming from someone who had their own made it even funnier, and in my humble opinion, confirmed it as true.

I suppose any teenaged child was due to be a hassle; even in my fifties I can attest that deep internal conflict brings out the worst in anyone. Still, it wasn't enough that he was going through his rites of passage, but he entered them in the most tumultuous stage in his life, where his mother was trying to put the pieces of their life together whether he liked it or not.

I was in Lucas' room again. David had been a distant memory for over three years now, although always one it burned to remember. It was a different room, in a different home, but even though his room wasn't covered in memorabilia so his friends wouldn't find him odd, I could still tell it was the room of someone who belonged more to the stars than of this own world.

I hated the fact that I would have to pack it up and move it once more, but not as much as the fact that when I told him, he nodded with the resigned inevitability of someone used to fate taking him down a lonely road. I wished he'd yelled at me, slammed his door, told me he hated me; I can deal with that, I can understand that.

We weren't at the point where silence is all that I wanted. Right now silence was the worst thing in the world.

Equally resigned to our fate, I figured the least I could do was some surface level packing. Not too deep, he was still a teenage boy, so I knew I could find worse things to deal with than his silence. Instead, I picked some of his books off of the shelf, organized them into a box, and left it open so he could amend things for me. I made it to his desk, before realizing a key component was missing.

Lucas was out with friends, one last time before they became a new set of memories. When that was the case, he never took his notebook. It wasn't cool, or something, Gods only know. Yet, it wasn't there.

That's when a scary thought entered my mind, and no force on Earth or space could stop a mother with a scary thought.

I dug through his shelves, and the books I packed, not noticing his favorites in there. I looked in his clothes closet, noticing his favorite outfits were gone. I ran into the kitchen, and as I tore through the cupboards, I realized an incriminating lack of pop-tarts and Cheetos.

Gods help me, I've driven my own son away from me.

The rest of the night is a blur in my mind. Desperate phone calls to nowhere, a night of driving around looking for him, finding him at a fast food joint outside of Bremerton on the outskirts of town, bag packed with a boy I'd never met with makeup on his eyes.

After that, silence. He was caught, he had no defense. He packed his boxes, listened to my lectures, and stayed with me as though he was a prisoner, not as a child.

The silence was not to punish me, not as a petty act of revenge, but because he had neither a way to say what he wanted, or faith that I would listen.

It wasn't until we drove down the Interstate that I finally asked him to speak. I apologized for not supporting him, but affirmed that we were in this together. We always were, an aimless planet and a loyal moon that, try as he might, could never break his orbit.

I expected him to start with him angrily telling me about how he didn't want to move, how I was ruining his life, and other old standbys from the teenager tantrum playbook.

I didn't expect him to apologize.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for not trusting you."

I closed my eyes for a moment until I realized we were driving, and the roads were especially icy at this time of night. I prepared a response when he beat me to it, sidelining one conversation for a new page to turn into, giving me his trust in a way I hadn't expected, even if a mother's intuition can usually be trusted to be ready for the news.

"Mom," he said, taking a deep breath. "I'm gay."

And here I was thinking I'd scared him away from men. "Okay," I replied, not wanting to scare him but realizing this is a shift I didn't expect to talk about. "I'm glad to know. Just don't make the mistakes I made."

"I've learned a lot from you," he promised. I cracked wise about that being what I was afraid of more than anything, and the conversation ended, but as his life went before my eyes, I realized that the way he stood up for himself might have been inspired by the choices I made to protect us. He was strong even when I was weak, and that made me stronger.

**-MoD-**

Every once in awhile Zelda unites the five of us to process our grief. She led by example, willing to talk about her own process, tears and all. I caught her talk about finally reading the journals Link wrote in during his expeditions, which changed her love of a strong, silent man, to an understanding of someone who had so much to say about her beneath the surface. All of us had a million tales to tell under our skin, even someone as open as Zelda.

I also recall Gaiman talking about his own family. He cracked wise about how after his wife passed, he jetted here to make sure they didn't put him in a home, but now realized he couldn't run forever, and was going to build the bonds he abandoned while standing his ground. Zelda said if they could taste his food they'd know he'd be strong on his feet. "Til the day I die," he promised.

I wonder if he noticed me beaming at his progress.

Samus was the one who struck a false note in my mind. The decision not to reenlist was unsurprising; even though her accomplishments were lauded, and justly so, I was in the room next to her. When she awoke screaming, she woke me up too. I knew she'd reject me if I tried to comfort her, but seeing her try and shrug off her choice as an everyday decision makes my gut clench up. She's a terrible liar. I can see the look of resignation in her eyes. It reminds me of Lucas. In that moment in her life, I hate the world for what it did to her.

Maybe space was the one true refuge.

I'm so caught up in my own daze that when the names of myself and the host are said I don't notice at first. The host shakes his head, as silent as ever. I am no better, getting up to leave before I break.

Before I know it, I'm in the forest again. The injustice of the world has broken my shell and it won't be an easy fix. At my log in the corner of the world, I let myself cry without reason, angry at all the sleepless nights, all the broken hearts, all of the family strife, all of the gaping holes in our lives, and angry that myself and the host are too scared to speak, yet all I can remember is the moment the two almost had a real bond, and it was ripped away before I could even lose it by my own accord, like I was so volatile by nature.

**-MoD-**

He was a clean slate. He was the one who offered four strangers a place in a meager cabin to help us recover from all that the world did to us. He was the one who didn't question us for our strange habits, the one who never made us feel like we were taking advantage of him or infringing on him. Yet, he rarely spoke beyond necessity, never shared his story, never gave any sign that he was like us until the night he tried to kiss me.

We met in the living room by mistake. It was night, and we were milling about avoiding sleep so we would not have to dream, I assume. We had no plans or destination, but we found each other.

I fired the first flare. "Hello."

He didn't respond, and in the dim iridescence of Christmas lights I was able to observe him. He was shorter than I, barely taller than Lucas. His skin was tan despite the winter, leading me to presume it was natural. He had a goatee, he still wore his boots and jacket like armor, and when I looked straight into his eyes, the ones that felt so scalding now, I felt a warmth in my heart.

He looked stronger than a redwood, but there was such an underlying sorrow in his eyes that I couldn't help but relate. He was so much like I, that despite not knowing him I felt like I knew him forever.

Not knowing what else to do, I took him into my arms, embracing him in a way that was ambiguous, unsure, but welcome. He placed a hand on my hip, cautiously to avoid overpowering me. I relaxed, okay with the way this was going. I'd not been affectionate with anyone in so long, and I was terrified, but willing to try anything, so I moved down to look him in the eye, trying to communicate that this was okay, that I was game.

He kissed me, and it ended as quickly as it began. I tried to return it, but he broke away, and in his eyes I read shame, shock, and terror. I could only look back, not running, trying to show I wasn't upset, that I was okay.

He didn't move, looking away.

The sensation of warmth left me, and I was cold and clammy once more, like someone who was asleep for far too long being put back to bed. Defeated, I walked away, and I felt the same resignation I'd seen too starkly in Samus' eyes.

I just wanted to feel again. Rejection and anger was better than nothing, I suppose.

**-MoD-**

The day I'd met Lucas' future husband, I knew immediately that he was the right man, to the point of near envy. They talked with a familiarity that felt far more expansive than the few months they knew each other, and the affection also mirrored this. As we sat down to watch Bend's homegrown Christmas Parade, I was as content to watch the two of them talk as I was to participate.

The beau in question was a unique man. He wasn't as camp as I expected, but still had a spark to him that was limitless. His energy was infectious, and even my son, as quiet and introspective as he was, bounced off of Toon's energy. As the stage name would indicate, he was a character, and I enjoyed knowing he'd be a part of my life.

Eventually I broke up the reverie as we waited for the first float. "So, what else is going on upstate?" I asked. "I hope you've been managing well in school."

Lucas sighed, but with a knowing fondness. "You don't possibly think I'd show my face around here if I was failing?"

Toon elbowed him. "Oh you gotta tell her," he said, "you have to."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm dying to hear."

He blushed. "Oh, well..." he looked around his person for something. "Shit, Toon, do you have it?"

Toon smirked. "Like I'd miss a chance to embarrass you in front of your mother?" He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a small paper stack.

"Damn it, Toon," Lucas mumbled, looking down. I could only imagine what the college days were doing to a once innocent young man. Toon laughed a chirpy little giggle and dramatically popped a kiss on the side of his head before handing me the paper.

I read it, immediately finding the name "Lucas Stellan". I don't know what I expected, whether he made the honor roll or killed a man, and the teasing and clues were no help, until my breath caught as I read it.

"Told you she'd cry," Lucas said.

I couldn't help but get emotional as I read Lucas' newsletter article, where he expressed his love for the stars and how it translated to his love for life. I would give anything to find that paper today, or at least a copy of it, but I still remember one passage.

"I used to think that the enormity of the universe was too inaccessible, and that I was too small in comparison to matter. Now, it's inverse. I am no bigger, and the galaxies are no smaller, but I realize if I am so small and insignificant, there's no reason to live life anything short of fearlessly. I love freely, I pursue my dreams, I try new things, and I enjoy the world around me. I'd urge anyone not to feel like the galaxies make you insignificant. You're never too small to reach for the skies."

Toon grabbed me dramatically, feigning tears in his eyes as blue and big as the sky, but an unmistakable gleam of love still shining through. "Isn't our boy just a poet?"

I can only nod, proud that all of the things that went wrong in our life didn't stop from making sure he turned out all right.

"Yeah, not sure if you could tell, but Toon does theater," Lucas explained, trying to divert my attention from the paper, blushing redder than the Santa hat Toon was wearing.

"I caught that at the stage name," I replied wryly.

Toon laughed, thrilled that I was already familiar with him enough to partake in the playful spirit. "Well, a name like Jon just isn't enough to express my spirit. You know how it is with us college theater students."

"I'm sure if I tried to remember, I could, but I'm getting older by the day."

I handed Lucas the paper back, and to keep from embarrassing him, just clapped him on the shoulder. He responded by hugging me, pulling me tight like I would disappear if I let go. From the corner of my eye, even Toon looks affected by the embrace.

He lets go when he's good and ready, and I let him go back to bantering with Toon. The first floats come in, as handcrafted and humble as you'd expect, but my eyes are on Lucas. He's short, not like myself, but he stands tall. His wispy blonde hair swirls up in a faux hawk, he's dressed in a striped holiday sweater, and his eyes have a new energy to them. I finally see the man my son was always destined to grow up into, and I already feel as though I got my Christmas gift.

**-MoD-**

I spend some time near the Christmas tree. As usual, I listen, never speak. I think the notes I've taken about the others will be good to get Samus, Zelda, and Gaiman good gifts, but any information I get is good. Besides, Zelda is busy interrogating Mister Mystery himself about what he wants for Christmas. Predictably, he has a monologue of non-answers. To my surprise, Zelda cuts right through it without a fuss.

"You should let us worry about you. It's what you brought us here for."

I find myself emphatically agreeing with her, to the point where I nearly speak up in support, but stick to my vow of my silence before it's too late. I keep my hand on the tree, trying to find peace while staying incognito when I feel my hand held to the fire once more.

I look up, and the host is looking at me, on guard. We stand next to each other, dangerously close. I give him a look that keeps him on edge, one that tells him he already had his chance. I didn't notice until it was too late that he'd almost spoken to me for the first time since the kiss.

I swear to myself and leave the room. I head outside, even though sadness isn't my exact mood, and prepare to head into the forest to get away from the holiday madness. At this point, I almost prefer the nothingness.

I'm stopped cold in my tracks when I hear his footsteps, too desperate for comfort. I turn around sharply, facing him, until he- of course- stops. I realize again that I'm giving him a look Medusa would envy, but at this point I don't care, I'm beyond frustrated with him.

He looks at me. I look at him. I am reminded of a Seussian tale I would read Lucas every now and again about the Zax, a tale of two stubborn morons like ourselves who stand in each other's way but refuse to move.

In his eyes, I see terror. It's a terror that's transcendent, beyond being scared of a woman who looks close to breaking. Against myself, I wonder how much I've misjudged him.

I can't take it. I breathe out and leave him. When he doesn't follow me, I wonder if I've burnt the bridge for good.

**-MoD-**

The days before Christmas disappear too quickly. More planning, more routines, more meetings, more ceremonials, but so little meaning. I am not invested, because I give so little, and I wonder if I've lost the capability to give my all.

Eventually I force myself to make my way to town and shop. Samus gives me a ride, as quiet as ever. She knows enough about life to know which kind of people ask a lot of questions and who don't like to ask questions, gravitating towards the latter. As her beat up Toyota makes its way to Newport, not even the radio fills the dead air.

We arrive to the boardwalk and split quietly. I have three gift ideas, and I looked up in a phone book where to find them. Now it's just time to get to doing.

I walk along the boardwalk. Watching the others go along the street is unnerving. There are so many others here, to the point where I fear the shops will make me claustrophobic. All the chatter, all the noise, all the activity has already unnerved me, and I can barely hide it.

I'm almost to the first store when, speak of the bloody devil, he finds me. I prepare to avoid another standoff when I see him.

Lucas.

I nearly scream, I nearly cry, I nearly jump out of my skin, I nearly do many things, but I manage to keep my reaction relatively inconspicuous in ratio to what I want to do, but it doesn't keep him from dropping the bag with the newspaper in it that has my son's face. I clench my hands together and try and catch my breath, but I feel like I'm about to have a heart attack, which at this rate would be more than welcome. I just want this all to stop, because I am close to breaking.

You apologize, and it's enough for me to reach for your hand. We look each other in the eye, and I withstand the fire.

"Do something." I demand. I'm done, I'm here. You've caught me, you've awoken me, and you've nearly driven me off the deep end. One interaction has weighed on me so heavily that I can't think straight, because I nearly began to feel again and you took it as fast as you gave it. Hate me, love me, kiss me, scream at me, just don't leave me, for the love of God.

I squeeze your hand, awaiting for you to show signs of life. You're frozen. I have finally turned you to stone. Any avenue we could have taken appears to be gone, because of you, because of me, because we are so desperate to escape the pain that we have sold our souls to the devil, willing to keep from speaking if it means we never have to say what we're really thinking.

I surrender, and I leave you at long last, my footsteps saying more than I know.

**-MoD-**

Even at his funeral, I never cried harder in my life than when Lucas handed me the acceptance letter from NASA. Toon held his arm raptly as I read it, a wide grin on his face. Both of them were in their mid-twenties, a lone ring on their ring fingers, so together, so grown, so successful. I had no clue what I'd done to be so blessed, and could only cry as I tried and failed to read the letter.

Lucas launched forward in a way that suggested that Toon literally pushed him towards me, and he grabbed my arm. Not content, I stood from the table, steadying myself on my feet to wrap him in a hug that I never wanted to let go of. In my mind ran all the risks, all that would change, and how extreme of a transition it would be, but I was ready, because he was ready. I knew I'd have to let go of him, not just from the embrace, but from my immediate life, so he and Toon could move across the country to chase goals larger than I could comprehend.

"I'm so proud of you," I choked out.

Truth be told, I was proud of myself as well. Despite all of my flaws and shortcomings, I managed to raise a son that achieved his dream that he'd wanted all of his life, who had a fiancé that was loyal yet unique to him to challenge him in ways no one else could, that was going to change the world. I had no clue how many days I had left, nor where my destination was, whether it be decades or minutes, around the world or still here, but I knew I would leave this Earth having accomplished something.

**-MoD-**

I bought a copy of the newspaper, and now I'm alone on the boardwalk reading it. I'd made so much effort to avoid news, avoid the world around me, avoid thinking about life outside of my hiding place from the world, that I didn't know about this tribute to him, his final resting place.

I read the newspaper, and with the summarization of the tragedy come the accomplishments. As I read about how well he did in his brief tenure, at first it all overwhelms me with just how much the world lost when the ship blew up. The children of many, not just I, had so much to give, so much intelligence, bravery, and passion to explore places so few would, to bring back power and information that would make the world a better place, only to have it end on one of their very first missions, where they become nothing more than stardust.

Then I remember his words, and the inverse happens.

Like a switch, I think of all that he got to do, some of which that I still will never be able to do. He excelled in school, earned the acceptance of others, withstood a tumultuous childhood without resentment, found true love, and saw the galaxies outside his window, closer than most men ever will be.

Good men are harder to find than angels, but my young angel became a good man.

I only wish I could understand how to say this to others, but I take the first page of the newspaper, look Lucas in the eye, seeing how exhausted he was, and try and memorize it for later. Then, I leave it, and prepare to shop.

I find gifts that let others find their voice. I find Zelda a journal, so that she may leave behind her own legacy for the world to see. I find Samus a photo album, so that she may have the courage to make memories anew in a world that has only left her with twisted ones. I find Gaiman a track phone with some minutes, so that he may find a way to build the bridges with his family stronger than ever. I don't know what to get me, and I don't know what to get the host, but I accept easy fixes are but a fantasy.

As I prepare to leave, Samus is the one who finds me. She's got a smirk on her face, and she's pointing to an object in her hand. As I catch up with her, she hands it to me. It's a CD for a group I don't recognize, and I wonder why I should care.

"You'll never guess the dirt I dug up," she says. I read the name of the band. The Checkered Knights. I hand it back to her, confused.

"Oh, lemme..." she turns it around and points at two names on the back. Purin Knight and...

Oh, Gods.

I now know what to get him, at least.

**-MoD-**

We listen to the CD on the way back. As usual, he is silent, but she has an amazing voice. She sings like a bell, with energy and passion, the same way that Lucas wrote about space. The lyrics are of romance beyond my comprehension, so true and meaningful that even silent, he appears.

Suddenly things make a lot more sense.

We arrive back. She parks the car and says, "He's good."

I nod.

"Imagine if he spoke up," she adds. "The things he could say."

Imagine indeed. I wonder what I could say as well.

"Thank you," I tell her. I open the door, and prepare to leave. As I do, she does as well, and we run into each other on the other side of the car. I stop, and so does she.

"Hey," she says coyly, confused in an amused sort of way.

I am almost too scared to speak, and I have too much to say to keep quiet, but I choke out "you take care of yourself."

"Look who's talking," she replies, keeping wit despite being pretty clearly surprised. Her smirk masks a gasp, and her eyes read something I haven't seen in them yet: satisfaction.

She reaches out and gives me a quick hug. It's a small embrace and clap on the back, but it's more than I ever expected. She gives me a short salute, and she's sincerely smiling. I go into my room, set the gifts down, and grab my sketchbook before I forget Lucas' face.

Running and not just walking, I take the sketchbook and set out to find my log. The forest becomes a beautiful blur, and the cold air gives me energy that my frail body hadn't given itself in ages. It isn't until I reach the edge of the woods, seeing miles of deforested stumps before me, that I realize I overshot it drastically.

Oh.

I look out at the nothingness, feeling like I'm on the edge of the Earth. I can only imagine what was once here before industry and business could take it for itself. The woods around the host's house felt endless enough, but it could have been so much more than a graveyard of death.

The trees are gone. Lucas is gone. Purin is gone. Link is gone. Mrs. Gaiman, Samus' troupe, the others on the Astromeda, and billions I will never meet, all are gone. But I remember the law in Oregon that requires that for every tree taken down, two new ones are planted. Even after I am gone, after all five of us go in whatever order, the seeds we planted will remain and will go on without us.

That's when I realize I can no longer do nothing.

First things first, I sketch. I draw Lucas to the best of my abilities, remembering vividly the picture of him in the newspaper. Every hair on his head contains a memory, the color of his eyes contain his soul, the structure of his face shaped by the life he lived. I finish it by fixing the memory of the paper and give him a genuine, shining smile.

I begin to cry again, but it's not entirely sad this time. At least I'm finally able to express a proper farewell. For once, I am fearless.

When his footsteps enter the scene, I still feel no fear, even with his fire on the side of my face. I don't look up, and I don't wipe my tears. If he makes his move, it will be with me at my rawest, at my most sickly sincere. No more, no less.

When he does make his move, I smile, and look at him. I don't know what the change is, but I understand sudden, rapid change, sparked by one particular moment. Maybe I can understand him as well, and through him understand myself.

I see him shiver, and I like the idea that it's not from the cold. I start the conversation with "I hope this is your attempt to do something," hoping that either he'll progress or he'll step back, and I can make my path from there.

He sighs, but he says, "Yes."

Good.

He looks at my drawing, and I don't hide it. He takes my hand, and I don't fight it. He doesn't kiss me, and I don't push it. Compromise makes a good relationship, after all, wherever this goes, or so I'd imagine. His silence is a concentrated silence, and I can only imagine what he's thinking, what the one he lost has left him with.

His eyes shine enough to melt the snow, and I finally tell him that his eyes are like fire. He looks at me, and I feel comforted, not burnt. It reminds me of something even I had forgotten, and I let Lucas' page go to show him his own portrait. I'm not sure what he thinks, but silence is our first language, and whether he knows it or not, he's smiling.

He hands me a plate of food, which surprises me. I hadn't considered the idea that he cared that much to notice me. I blush. "I know, I must look like death," I say, and attempt to eat. I'm far from successful but I get in a few bites. He seems to understand. "I'm sorry if I worried you."

I set the plate down, and he fixes the tinfoil. "After everything..." he swallows. "I have done nothing but worry. I only wish I had found my way to you sooner."

And I only wish I had met you halfway, and pulled you over to my side instead of resenting you for struggling with the same struggle to speak that I had. The past can stay in the past, though. It's time to enter the future. It's time to live again.

"I do not know your journey," I say, each word weighing more than the world, and as relieving as that implies to let go of it, "but I know if you continue to take it alone, you will never make it. Take me with you, and perhaps we will both find our way out."

His skin feels warmer on mine, and he reaches into his bag for something. Before I can tell him to save it for Christmas, it's in my lap. I almost don't notice it until I realize it's the second sketchbook I hold.

I open it. It's empty. No note, no drawing, nothing but clean pages. Silence is still our primary language but he's already said more than I imagined.

"Thank you," I breathe, ready to cry again. "I didn't expect this."

He shakes his head in disbelief, but I really am surprised. From the moment he laid hands on me I knew he was going to be important, but this isn't how I expected it to happen. Since turnabout is fair play, I realize I have his gift in my pocket. I pull out a music player and some headphones. It's nothing fancy, but if he gives me a new page to turn, I will give him new songs to listen to.

He doesn't quite understand what it is until I give him one headphone and start an album by the band that Lucas and I used to listen to beneath the stars. I can see the look in his eyes as his heart catches. Good. He loves it already. I'm glad he's got good taste.

I can feel every emotion he could ever say in his hand as he hears the music that's given me so much. I wonder if he knows how much I already know about him just by his presence and his body language, but we say nothing, letting the wordless music speak our native tongue for us.

He already is unforgettable.

It's nice to meet you, Mr. Knight.

**-MoD-**

Lucas and I sit beneath the stars. I have The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place on the CD player beneath us. The grass beneath us is soft and authentic, the dirt beneath a solid foundation for a goodbye. Tomorrow he leaves for college and I already miss him.

He's teaching me how to draw, showing how he creates his structures and teasing me when I slip up. It's frustrating, and it's only just now becoming something I can do, but I enjoy learning it.

Every once in awhile, his gaze turns toward the stars, where he traces constellations with his eyes and gets lost within them. More than happy to set the sketch pad down, I tap him on the shoulder.

"I'm going to be up there someday," is all he says.

I believe him.


End file.
